The Wedding Suit
by Iolanthe 8
Summary: Only three days left until the wedding and it's business as usual, with Sophie stressing and overworking and Howl constantly craving her attention. She'll never get everything done on time unless he gives her some peace. Or will she?


Warning: 'T' rating is for very mild adult content.

Acknowledgment: Sophie and Howl belong to the magnificent Diana Wynne Jones. Me, I merely adore them to bits.

—o—

"Sophie dear," said Howl, "I've been thinking. This is the most important suit I shall ever wear, and what I want to know is, ought I to be trusting _you_ with it?"

They were in a small parlor, just off the central hall of the increasingly-crowded-with-house-guests Smith mansion, in which a makeshift fitting-room had been set up. There Sophie, perched atop a tailor's stool, had for the past fortnight been attempting to deal with her sisters' gowns, her stepmother Fanny's dress and hat, lace cravats for the groomsmen Michael and Ben, her own things—and Howl, who kept barging in with requests for this or that fine adjustment in the fit or trimmings of his sumptuous frock-coat.

"After all," he went on, admiring himself from different angles in the mirror opposite, "deny it though you will, the history of you versus my suits has been a tragic one—has it not, Mrs. Scissorhands?"

"Then get someone else," Sophie grumped.

"No, you'll do," Howl said airily. "Have I mentioned how incredible this brocade is? Wherever did you find it?"

"You have, and I told you. The King's tailor," she said. "Stand still, please." He was right about the cloth, a warm rich black velvet as soft as a caress, intricately brocaded in a glistening midnight blue. To this Sophie, with her newly discovered magic, had added a subtle sheen like starlight. It quite suited Howl's hair which, for the wedding and for the remainder of his year of mourning for his beloved teacher, Mrs. Pentstemmon, he had again turned dark.

It now hung halfway down his back in gleaming blue-black waves. Sophie refused to notice that it smelled of cinnamon. This went well with the vanilla scent he was wearing—which Sophie also refused to notice.

What she _did_ notice was that she was hungrier than usual for something from Cesari's: a flaky pastry drizzled with vanilla icing, maybe, or a half-dozen cinnamon sweet buns.

But no pastry was forthcoming, and anyway, Sophie kept forgetting to eat. She had entirely too much to do right now, with no time for non-essentials and no attention to spare dwelling upon how elegant Howl was, how well the coat suited him, how just looking at him took her breath away...

"Of course, the blue-and-silver suit was already spoilt, as you have never tired of reminding me," Howl said. "But to go cutting it to pieces afterwards was just so _punitive."_

"I seem to recall being angry about something," Sophie murmured. "Turn round, please. In fact I seem to recall being _enraged." _

He laughed merrily. Sophie looked up at him with narrowed eyes. She was feeling quite the frump in her frowsy brown work-dress, her hair in a long red-gold plait that had been coming undone since last evening.

"The real mystery, though, is the gray-and-scarlet," he said. "I've been meaning to get to the bottom of _that_ catastrophe. Now seems as good a time as any. So. Sophie, what did you do to my favourite suit?"

"Um—" Conveniently, Sophie's mouth was full of pins just then.

"You did _something, _of course."

"Pff," Sophie said, pinning like mad. On this, he had her dead to rights.

"No hurry; I'll wait patiently," he said.

She made him wait a good ten minutes, hoping he'd grow bored as he usually did, wander off and go bother somebody else.

No such luck. Instead he stood there fidgeting first with the collar, then with the lapels, then with the lace at his cuffs. "Look at these pocket flaps," he said. "Instead of the one large jet button, how do you think it would work with three smaller buttons, the middle one slightly offset?"

"Fine, Howl. If you'd like to transport yourself to High Norland for more buttons. I don't have the time just now."

"No, I think I'd rather have you take in the waist. Three millimeters should do it. I don't want to look fat. Sophie, confess. You'll feel better afterward. What did you do to my gray-and-scarlet suit?"

It was useless. "Well, I didn't mean to do _anything,"_ she began. "And I didn't even know I'd done it, until—"

"Until what?"

"Until Mrs. Pentstemmon said something."

"What did she say?"

Sophie sighed. Now that Howl had got interested, he might not go away for hours. "She said, _'That boy is going to the bad.' _Her exact words, I'm afraid."

"How extraordinary!" Howl remarked, without the slightest trace of irony. "Why would she say such a thing? You know that I was her favourite pupil. "

"I don't think I want to tell you."

"Oh, but you must. Really. I'm all ears. Truly I am. _Please?" _

Once that wheedling tone crept into his voice it was very hard for Sophie to keep her head. "I—well, you see—oh, Howl, it's embarrassing."

"Nothing you disclose at this late date could possibly shake my high opinion of you, cariad."

She set her scissors and pincushion down rather more forcibly than she meant to. "All right, if you'll let me get my work done in peace! It was that day you dropped your suit in my lap for me to mend—on your way out the door to go court my sister in Upper Folding."

"But I _wasn't_ courting your sister," Howl said. "Not that day."

"'_Not that day,'" _Sophie repeated sourly. "How was I to know? I was _annoyed._ And jealous, and hurt. And I guess all the time I was darning the frayed bits, I was talking to the suit. That's what Michael said, anyway."

"I should have known!" he said triumphantly. "And what on earth did you say to my suit, Mrs. Recipe for Disaster?"

Sophie's face was burning. Howl was of course relentless. "Come on, now. Out with it."

"I said all sorts of rubbish," she admitted. "I believe I said something like, _'Built to pull in the girls, aren't you?_' I told it what a fine suit it was. I may have mentioned something about aunts—"

"Aunts! Sophie, you confound all expectations. So that's what Mrs. P. was on about."

"I'm afraid so, Howl. There you were, her best student, shamelessly swanning about Kingsbury in a suit with what she recognized at once as an irresistible attraction spell, darned right into the seams. She thought you had charmed the suit yourself. This led her—quite naturally—to assume that you had fallen into the dark arts."

Howl laughed. "Oh, Sophie, how _could_ you?"

"I _didn't!_ I mean, I did, but I didn't mean to. I didn't even know I was doing anything! And when I learned it had got you in trouble with Mrs. Pentstemmon, I felt awful."

"As well you should."

Sophie snorted.

"So," Howl said pleasantly. _"Now_ we know."

"Yes."

For a blissful few minutes—two and a half or so—there was silence, until Howl spoke again. "I'm almost afraid to ask," he ventured, "but—have you, erm, said anything to _this _suit?"

Sophie was suddenly very busy with pins and tucks. Handwork had always calmed her and helped her think. For that reason she preferred it to magic; she was still unused to her powerful innate ability, and had little control over its effect—as the unfortunate affair of the gray-and-scarlet suit so plainly attested.

"Well, Sophie?" Howl pressed. "Have you been talking to my suit?"

"If you must know, Howl, I am trying awfully not to say anything, not to wish anything, not even to _think_ anything."

"Is it working?" he said, as she spun him round again and began pinning things on the back.

"Not particularly," she admitted.

"Do tell!"

"Do mind your own business!"

"My dear Sophie, I think I ought to be aware of any spells you might be placing on my clothing. Just common sense, you know."

_Drat_ him! The wedding was in three days, and she was short on sleep yet still behind on absolutely everything, and this overdressed boy wouldn't give her a moment's peace... "Howl Jenkins Pendragon, I sometimes believe you _still_ haven't got a heart!"

"I don't—at least not my own. _You_ have that now, my dear. Although—correct me if I'm wrong—I was under the impression that in return you had given me yours?"

Dead to rights and then some. Blast!

"You did, didn't you?" he said in a small, pitiful voice that was utterly genuine.

Well, they_ were _going to be married in three days, and they had already had long talks about all sorts of things, such as children, and hopes and dreams, and leaving spells and wet towels on the bathroom floor. As the time drew near their talks had grown increasingly frank. And anyway, from the moment she met him her feelings for him had been so strong that she'd had to turn herself old because she thought it would help her not to feel them. And furthermore, she _had_ had a few words with this wedding suit of his...

"I've been telling your clothes to stop making me want to take mine off!" she blurted angrily.

He grinned. "You _like_ me!"

"Of course I like you, you horrible man! Haven't I told you so a thousand times already?"

"Yes, but I never tire of hearing it, Sophie." He added softly, "And I don't believe I ever will."

Oh, _curse _the man! If there was anything she did _not _have time for right now, it was a tender, prolonged kiss, a lovely kiss...

"Well, cariad," Howl said at last, "It occurs to me that maybe I've been a bit of a nuisance. I am sensing that you would like it if I were to quietly let myself out."

"Oh. Yes. I mean— No." Her head was spinning. "I'm nearly done. It should only be a few more minutes. Let me see if I've got any more of that black satin cord—"

Sophie spun round on her stool. There, laid out on the workbench behind her, were two perfectly ruched cravats of pearl-white Strangian lace, an opulently trimmed mother-of-the-bride hat and frock, and two blue attendants' gowns with every ruffle, ribbon, lace bit, and pearl bob in place.

"Howl," she said, "you—?"

"I took the liberty," he said. "Except for the hat. Fanny took care of that. As to the rest, the four of us conferred; the ladies told me what they wanted, and—I _can_ do magic, you know—I provided it. And lace cravats are a specialty of mine. We felt you could use the help."

"I didn't want to ask for it, but yes," Sophie said, her hands pressed to her cheeks and her eyes filling with tears. "Yes."

"We all know how you are, Sophie," he said. "Work, work, work. And anyway, you ought to be devoting your time to your wedding dress if it's to be worthy to stand beside this marvellous suit you've made me. To have my bride in anything but the most exquisite gown ever imagined—it would be unthinkable. It would be like sending my old mother to see the King in rags."

They both were laughing now. Sophie, having retrieved the satin cord wrapped on its white card, swatted him across the backside with it.

Mrs. Fairfax bustled in just then, bearing a huge laden tray. "Supper," she announced, beaming benevolently at them.

With a wave of Howl's hand an opulently set table appeared where the workbench had been.

"Yes," Sophie said absently. "I _am _hungry. I just need to finish—"

"No, dear, supper first," Mrs. Fairfax said. "And make sure she eats every bite, Wizard Howl," she added over her shoulder as she left.

"I certainly will," Howl said, but once again he was gazing raptly at himself in the mirror.

"Sophie, I do believe my suit is done. Look—" With one elegant sweep of his hand the trim was sewing itself neatly into place, and pins were flying back into pincushions, and scissors and needles were putting themselves away.

Then, with a grand flourish of his frock coat, he spun round, drew himself up to his full height, and struck a jaunty pose. An umbrella, sitting innocently in a stand by the door, jumped into his hand and became a toy cutlass. "Oh, Sophie, this is glorious!" he cried. "I look like a pirate!"

"You _are_ a pirate," Sophie muttered, but every inch of her was smiling.


End file.
